before me, I
did not feel more wretched than usual,--I did not long for his
return, or dread it with more intensity than the day before;
and when I pressed his picture to my lips, the tears that
dimmed my eyes did not flow more bitterly than usual? The post
came in; and there were letters for me,--letters from abroad:
a black seal was upon one of them; and as I saw it, at once I
felt that my uncle was dead. A gush of purer and more sacred
sorrow than had ever yet sprung from my eyes or wrung my
heart, overcame for a while the selfish fears and sufferings
of my soul. But even my grief for him,--the kindest though the
sternest of friends,--was not unmixed with dark and bitter
associations. It was a strange fear that seized me; I was
weakened by suffering, and a superstitious dread took
possession of me. He was gone, and he had been deceived to the
end; he had mourned over his child long and deeply, and had
died in ignorance of my share in her death; but now, his
disembodied spirit seemed to haunt and accuse me; and that
first link which connects us with the unknown world, by the
loss of one we love, was to me a dreadful as well as a solemn
thought. "His last words," thus wrote my aunt, "his last words
were of you; he raised himself with difficulty in his bed, and
with a strong effort pronounced your name, and then, after
another struggle, added, 'Tell her to make Edward happy;'
after this, he held my hand in his for a few minutes; once he
pressed it, a change came over his face, and then he died in
perfect peace. Oh, my Ellen, to die must be a dark and
dreadful thing to those who have lived without God in the
world! but to die as he did is not terrible; for his life had
been void of offence, and irreproachable, as far as a human
being's can be, and his death was indeed the death of the
righteous." Edward, a voice from the grave calls upon me to
make you happy. Where are you; that I may be at your feet and
fulfil that dying charge? Where are you, that I too may die in
peace, nor close my eyes for ever without a word of pity or of
pardon from you?

Twice I read over my aunt's letter, and then I opened
Edward's. He had not reached Hyeres before my uncle's death:
and had met Mrs. Middleton on her way back to England: he was
travelling home with her, and meant to precede her by a few
days to London, which he intended to reach by the twenty-third
of the month. He said she was powerfully and deeply affected
by the loss she